Hollow
by The Salad is Dressing
Summary: [Oneshot] She babbles to fill the silence while he remains immobile on his couch, staring blankly into the distance. He is hollow while she is filled to the brim with guilt.


Wow, this is probably the first thing I've posted in over a year. I guess I kind of abandoned fanfiction. Anyway, Please R & R. I'd really like some feedback on this.

**Hollow**

She visits him every day. It's time consuming work, owning a Holiday Resort, but she always manages to squeeze in a quick visit in her lunchbreak. That way, **he** doesn't find out.

He likes it when she visits him. It's not as if he gains much pleasure from her company. In fact, he'd rather it was _anyone _but her visiting him, but he likes the routine of it. It reminds him he's alive.

If only just.

She bustles about, refilling the vase beside his sofa with flowers from the hotel garden and tells him about her day. She complains about the slack employees and tells him of all the weird guests who stay at the hotel. Sometimes she even chats about her daughter, though thankfully she never mentions **him**.

He however, remains immobile on his couch, staring blankly into the distance. Like he does every single visit. Like he has for the past year.

She always leaves before the nurses come to feed him. She's reminded every day of what she's done to him, she doesn't need – she doesn't _want_, anymore guilt.

Her smile is always a bit wobbly and her eyes show obvious anxiety as she sits beside him fiddling with her fingers, babbling to fill the constant silence. He knows she's uncomfortable. So why doe she keep coming?

Easy Question. The Answer? Guilt.

Guilt for what she did to turn him into the vegetable that he is. And all for **him**.

* * *

One year later, she still visits every day, yet she's no longer anxious or paranoid. She simply sits beside him, her shoulder warm against his, speaking in that slow, soft, sad voice. 

Sometimes she tells him of her days in Brooklyn, Before Carmel, before she met him. Or **him**. Sometimes she stays silent, leaning her head against his shoulder linking her fingers with his, looking up at him with those vibrant green eyes, pleading with him to speak to her.

But he won't. He _can't._

He's just a shell. A shell utterly empty except for a tiny sliver of life force, barely keeping him alive. It's like that tiny piece of him that's left of him is shrouded in thick fog, so he can only just hear her voice, only _just_ feel her warmth.

And the fog grows thicker every day.

* * *

Another year passes. 

He is only just aware of her presence. The man he used to be is gone, the life force sucked out him leaving him hollow.

She's retired already, her fortune already made. She has enough money to remain comfortable for the rest of her life, at only twenty one.

She spends most of her time at the hospital with him. No Doctor could ever understand what changed him from the healthy eighteen year old that he was to the empty sack he is now.

But she knows. And she sits with him, curled against him, eyes wet with unshed tears. She doesn't bother to speak to him now. She knows he'll never respond.

Her marriage with **him** is over. It was doomed by the start. She was too eaten away by guilt to ever really love again. And **he** knows that.

Tears begin to roll down her cheeks, and she moves closer against him, her face in his chest muffling her sobs.

Vaguely he wonders how **he** is doing. He can almost imagine him now, walking around now, the life force she stole running through him, bringing **him **to life.

His last real memory of her before the hospital arises clear in his muddled mind. How she cornered him, pressed against him, hands on either side of his face. She fooled him into thinking she wanted him, despite the blatant fear in her eyes. Before he knew she had sucked the life force right out of him, which she gave to her _ghost, _lying on a hospital bed in the next room.

He remembers crashing to the ground, body mangled on the hospital hallway floor. He recalls her sorrowful voice.

'_It was the only way to save him. I couldn't let him die.'_

He wishes he could ask her if she regrets it.

Almost as if she read his mind, she lifts her head from his chest.

'I'm sorry, Paul.'

And that's all he ever needed to hear.

Using his very last bite of life, he closes his eyes.

And then, he's gone.

* * *

Argh, that was such a corny cliché last line. But Whatever! Reviews are greatly appreciated. I would really like reviews on this actually, because its different to anything else I've ever written before. Constructive criticism is loved! If you don't quite get it, just review and say so and I'll be sure to explain it to you. It's sort of an alternative ending to Twilight. 


End file.
